Will I Wake Tomorrow?
by Trinity08
Summary: Roger is dying and there is one last thing Mark needs to tell him. But what happens if he can't bring himself to do it? One-sided M/R.
1. One Thing More

**Author's Note:** Wow...my first foray into the published fanfiction community. How terrifying! And I've made the decision to start it with slash. Very bright of me. I will blame the fact that I am tired. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy this little offering, and please read and review!

**Warning:** This story contains character death, male/male love (albeit one-sided), suicide, talk of AIDs, and other general forms of angst. If that stuff doesn't suit your tastes, stop reading this right now and hit your browser's back button.

**Disclaimer:** Rent and all its characters belong to Jonathan Larson. May he rest in peace.

* * *

His breathing was heavy, labored. His forehead was hot and yet he complained of being ice cold. Occasionally his body spasmed as a wave of coughing came on or his muscles tensed in reaction to unseen aches and pains.

Mark Cohen watched with what appeared to be a stoic demeanor behind which lay a man who felt his sanity to be clinging to the end of a rope. His best friend Roger lay here, in an almost cruelly white, clean room. It wasn't Roger's kind of room, he knew. Roger would much prefer a wall half-splattered with cracking paint and posters of ancient rock legends taped on it. One with color and life and a story to tell. Not this...not this sterile asylum-whiteness. Not the walls that told no story, the walls that hid their stories under a facade of paint.

A thought struck Mark and he nodded with silent acknowledgment. He was like those white walls. Plain. Uninteresting. Secretive. Superficial. His story was hidden beneath layers of flesh, hidden in the darkest corners of his heart and guarded by every movement of his body.

Roger groaned softly and turned his head to look at Mark, eyes bleary with the half-sleep he had been enjoying for the last three hours.

"You're still here?" he asked. Mark nodded. "What time is it?"

"It's uh--" he said as he glanced at his watch, "...2:56 AM." Roger broke into a small fit of coughing, enough to bring Mark to his feet, but his friend put up his hand to hold him back. It was so awful to see such a strong man so debilitated.

"I'm fine...I'm...okay..." he claimed as he took several deep, shuddering breaths. "But why are you here so late? Why don't you go home and sleep?" He could not imagine any reason why Mark would want to stay with him the whole night long. That reality struck Mark like a punch to the stomach. Not that he hadn't experienced it before, but it hurt as much as ever.

What was he supposed to say? Should he say he didn't know how much longer Roger had left and worried about being gone during his last moments? Should he confess that he could not go home and sleep alone in that apartment, that he would be unable to sleep without hearing the calm sound of his breath? Should he make a comparison to the way Roger stayed with Mimi for weeks at the hospital until she lost her fight? Should he express what he had held in so well for four years?

"I...I'm not sleepy. I didn't know what else to do."

Roger looked at him quizzically, thinking for a moment before responding.

"Really Mark, you should get out more. Why not spend some time with Maureen and Joanne? Surely they're up at this hour. Or if that's too much for you to take, why not hang out with Collins? I mean, what fun am I? And you're going to have to get used to it you kn--"

"Roger please, please don't say that," Mark interrupted. If Roger kept talking he wasn't going to keep up those white walls for more than a few minutes. "I don't _want_ to get used to it."

Sometimes he hated how much Roger had come to accept his impending death, because he, Mark, had never come one step closer to allowing himself to even theorize the possibility. Roger was always supposed to be there. Roger was his wall, his comfort, his sanity. He was predictable in so many ways. There was no way he could die. People like Roger just weren't allowed to die.

Roger nodded and went silent. His eyes drifted to the blank wall opposite him, as though trying to see through it. After what seemed like forever to Mark, but was really just a minute or so, he looked back at him.

"I know it's hard Mark but...I don't mind. I really don't. I think I'll be happier. At least I won't have to worry about heat or anything," he said with a chuckle. Mark joined him, but stopped as Roger's laugh turned to more coughs. Mark was once again out of his hard metal hospital chair, but this time he sat Roger up and gave him some water. When the crisis was averted, at least for the meantime, Roger leaned back again and looked at Mark with as much seriousness and sincerity as he was capable of. "I'm ready for it. I want to see Angel again. I want to see Mimi. My God, I want to see Mimi."

If the mind's cries of anguish could be heard, everyone in the hospital would have gone deaf in that instant. The blood that pulsed in his veins echoed in Mark's ears. How could he be so happy to leave everyone behind? Why could he only think of seeing Mimi? Why couldn't Roger imagine leaving him behind? All of the heartache that was going to cause? Didn't he remember Collins at Angel's funeral? Didn't he realize that he was going to let history repeat itself?

Roger must have seen a glint of despair in Mark's icy eyes because he smiled as best he could and said "I know I'm making it sound easier than it is..." He paused, fumbling for the right words. Finally he realized that there was just no way to find them. Then a shiver crept up his spine and began to spread throughout his nerves until he was lost in another set of chills, biting his lip so hard that it bled. Mark called for the nurse and did his best to comfort his friend with blankets, sitting beside him and taking his hand in an attempt to calm him. As the nurse ministered to Roger, Mark saw in her eyes what looked like sadness and recognition.

It finally hit him. Roger was dying. And he could die any day, at any time. He could die in a month, a week, a day, an hour. He could die this very minute.

He blinked back tears at the image of his death. He was not there to see Angel go, but he had heard the stories. He could not imagine Roger's face as pallid as a ghost's, his final exhalation of air, the sound of the heart monitor's irregular rhythm before it finally stopped altogether.

"Hey. Are you okay?" Roger asked Mark, his fit having subsided. Mark half jumped as he came out of his horrific visions. When the clouded blue eyes made contact with his own, a thought struck Mark. He had to do it. He had to say it now or he would regret forever not having told him. He couldn't let Roger die until he knew the truth. He stared down at the white sheets and felt words rising in him that his logical self struggled to suppress with minimal success.

"Roger...I just have to tell you...well..." a lump stuck in his throat and Mark struggled with it for a moment. His friend waited with unusual patience for him to finish his sentence. It came as about as soft as audible whispers come.

"I love you."

The dark blond stared at his roommate and friend for a half second before breaking into a wide grin.

"Hey man, I love you too. You're my best friend. Without you I would never have gotten this far. I'd probably be dead in the gutter from an overdose or something. I don't know how you manage to stand me sometimes, but you really are a great, great friend. Thanks for that." He made a reassuring gesture toward the ceiling. "I'm sure Mimi feels the same, wherever she is."

Mark's heart had skipped half a beat at first, but then he felt it crumble into dust as he realized Roger hadn't understood his meaning at all. He didn't just love him as a friend. True, that was how it was at first. But this...this was different. This was the kind of love where mere sight was enough to command a sigh, the kind where each time he saw him asleep on the couch he had to resist the urge to just touch his beautiful face, the kind where every day Roger spent in the loft was a blessing and every day with Mimi a curse. This was the kind where he would give anything just to see him smile. And because of that, he did not protest Roger's response. Instead he smiled in kind and nodded, not daring to let his eyes leave those white sheets. Those deathly, deathly white sheets.

So instead they spent twenty minutes or so discussing their friends, the old days, Santa Fe, music, and other happy subjects until Roger drifted back to sleep.

The subject was never discussed again.

Nine days later, Roger died in his sleep with his friends standing beside him. The hollow, empty sound of the heart monitor echoed in Mark's ears but never registered in his brain. All that he could sense was the coldness of Roger's hand and the pain of his heart being torn apart.


	2. Flying Together

**Author's Note:** So if you made it thus far I'm going to hope that you liked the first chapter. Yay! Thank you! And now for more of your daily overdose of angst...

**Warning:** Character death, suicide, one-sided male-male love, and more angst. If you don't like it, don't read it.

**Disclaimer:** Rent and every character mentioned here belongs to Jonathan Larson. I hope he doesn't detest me for what I've done to them.

* * *

"_...You're my best friend. You've always been there for me...Without you..."_

_The words ceased and were replaced by coughs that grew more and more violent. Red mist spread over the scene. Suddenly he couldn't breathe...he couldn't...even...couldn't...he..._

A scream filled the loft apartment on Avenue B. Mark sat straight up in bed panting and shaking and clutching the sheets so tightly his fingers ached with the strain. Through blurred, teary vision he glanced at the empty bed on the opposite side of the tiny room. The blankets were strewn about, the pillows arranged just so. There was a poster just above it falling down at one corner. It was just as it had been when he left.

"And now he's probably sleeping with Mimi on a cloud," Mark chuckled caustically. However his thoughts were not with angels, but instead with the cold, stiff dirt under which the only true object of his affections had been buried the day before.

After five or six minutes he gained enough composure to get out of bed and to walk into the main area of the loft. He stared at the clock. The sun would rise soon. No point in going back to bed.

"I won't sleep anyways," he said with soft bitterness. Instead he made himself hot coffee that tasted of something akin to newspaper and sat on the torn up couch. Drawing his legs up to himself he surveyed the space around him. Memories flooded him, wave upon wave.

The first time he arrived. Meeting Collins and Roger and Benny. Examining his films. Watching the snow in the evenings. Trying to heat the loft with some old papers and a trash can. Holding Maureen not because he really wanted to but because he wanted to want to. Hearing about Benny's engagement. Watching Roger burn the scrambled eggs he had tried to make. Angel's Christmas visit. Mimi's message left on the windows in the frost. Noticing for the first time his changing feelings for Roger. The protest. Watching Roger and Mimi kiss from the corner of a building. Running away from that scene. Joining Buzzline. Quitting Buzzline. Screening his first documentary. Mimi's near-death experience. Roger locking himself in the bedroom for hours as he wept after she finally died. Listening to the sad laments transform into songs of hope. Beating Collins at poker for the only time in his life. The sound of his alarm clock. The way the sun peaked through the windows when it set. The first time Roger had a coughing fit. The first time he collapsed. Crying to his friends when he learned the awful truth. Crying to them again when it came to pass.

He let each memory come and go without thinking too much on any single one of them. Cold but unwilling to move from the couch, Mark attempted to warm his fingers by sticking them between its cushions. As he did so his fingers hit something. A...notebook?

Carefully the blond extracted from the couch a crumpled and beaten spiral notebook. On the front was a name in smudged marker. Roger Davis. Mark's eyes widened. The book in which Roger had written all of his lyrics and attempts at lyrics. The book that he never shown to anyone, not even to Mimi.

With the delicacy of one holding the most precious of ancient artifacts, Mark opened the cover. Half of what was written was illegible and the rest was full of angst. It was dated from just over a year ago. Curiosity ignited, he began to turn each page and felt himself drawn closer and closer into the very soul of his friend. There were songs about New York, about snow, songs about Mimi and even some about April. Songs full of heartache and others full of empty words. Rocker philosophy, love, living and dying. Every word was like reading the last will and testament of the closest thing Mark had ever had to a confidante. His eyes were filled with tears that for once, he did not hold back. By the time he reached the last page, he could barely read the writing through his burning eyes. It took him several tries to decipher the final stanza.

_Somewhere out there  
Is an angel waiting  
And some day...  
Some day when I am free  
We'll fly together  
'til the end of time_

He read the words over and over again, letting the meaning settle in.

Damn it all! Why had Roger been so eager to go? Why couldn't he stay behind? Where he was needed so desperately? Where without him there was nothing but the shell of a man with water running out of his eyes, sitting on a torn up couch in the cold darkness with a mug of tasteless coffee and a half-destroyed notebook?

"Roger...Roger I need you..." Mark whispered. The softness of it frightened him "Roger...Roger!" he cried, his voice growing louder with each word. "Why did you leave me? Why can Mimi have you for eternity and I have only the memories? Why do I always have to be the one alone? Tell me! What did I do to deserve this? What did I do wrong? God damn it Roger, _tell me!"_

The shouts bounced about the empty space and came back to his ears alone. He suddenly felt the eerie, terrifying sensation that he somehow no longer belonged in this loft. That the only way this loft was allowed to harbor him was if Roger was there too. It didn't like being so empty in much the same way as Mark didn't like it being empty. This was not home anymore. He couldn't stay here.

Unsure of what to do, Mark returned to the bedroom and dressed in a plain blue sweater and ripped jeans. He knew it was not enough for a chilly November morning, but he didn't care. After throwing on his scarf, Mark picked up Roger's notebook and his camera, shut off the low-watt lighting, and left.

Unable to think of anywhere else to go, Mark started up the stairs to the roof. They seemed to last forever. One step. Two. Three. Four. The beating of his shoes against the metal sounded vaguely musical, each step helping to create a repetitive, discordant song. He opened the door and felt the cold sharp blast of air escape into the building. Unperturbed, he allowed himself to be guided aimlessly by some force outside of his consciousness into the farthest corner on the rooftop. There he collapsed, unable to even so much as think clearly anymore. His bare hand rested on his camera, stung more so than the rest of his body by the early morning air. The shivers that ran up and down his spine gave Mark cause to smile.

"This must be what he felt like all that time..."

He derived pleasure from the chills and the icy coldness in the frighteningly masochistic and yet somehow innocent way that people who are so dependent upon others do. Sitting here on the frigid, damp ground with Roger's book of lyrics and the light-polluted sky of New York City he felt closer to his lost love than ever. He fantasized about holding Roger in his arms, pushing back his hair, gliding his fingers across his cheek, feeling their warm bodies pressed together in passionate dance, the taste of his lips, the scent of his skin. Every detail he imagined, free to let his mind wander in this godforsaken place.

As the images grew fewer and farther in between, one image stayed with him. The dark blue eyes. Every emotion expressed over a few square inches of space.

An idea slowly dawned on him as he imagined those eyes. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was terrified of it, yet the rest of him slowly began to feel stronger, more acclimated to the idea. As he read and reread the final stanza in Roger's notebook, he became assured of himself. He was strangely happy, strangely warm as he stood and peered over the edge of the building. For the several blocks he could see from so high up, the only people around were the typical groups of the homeless and two prostitutes exiting another building. Just beyond the buildings, the sun was beginning to rise.

Nodding to himself, Mark placed his camera and Roger's notebook on the ledge of the rooftop and bent over, first caressing the camera gently with a tinge of regret in his eye. Then he brought the notebook tenderly to his pale lips before placing it back down beside the camera. Those early first beams of the sun sparkled in his blue eyes as though reflecting off of crystals. He sang a tuneless song as he climbed up onto the ledge, the only music in his life which he had ever composed.

_Somewhere out there  
Is an angel waiting  
And some day...  
Some day when I am free  
We'll fly together  
'til the end of time_

As he ended the verse he saw how the warm hues of the dawn had spread and were beginning to color the sky a beautiful red-gold.

"Pity we never shared a sunrise like this..." Mark mused to himself, but without tears. A strange peace had overcome him, and though he felt a tiny bit sorry for his friends, he knew they would all be fine. They were good people. Strong people. And they would meet again. But until then...

Mark shook his head almost imperceptibly to himself and spoke with the self-assurance that he was being heard.

"I'm sorry that I'm not as strong as you thought Roger. But...I love you."

And with that, he spread his arms, leaned forward, and let the cold wind and the warm sun take him without protest.


End file.
